


A War by Other Means

by Liara_90



Series: Tales of Snow and Iron [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Boarding School, Canon Compliant, Coming of Age, Family Issues, Friendship, Inspired by Fanart, Minor Ozluminati, POV Third Person, Pre-Canon, Sister-Sister Relationship, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-05 00:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10293167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Jacques Schnee maintains to this day that General Ironwood "stole" his daughter Winter from him. Ironwood states that he did nothing of the sort.The story of Winter's time at Atlas Academy, and how she was changed by it, as told in seven parts. Canon-compliant as of the events of Volume 4.





	1. Coup d'œil

**Author's Note:**

> _We see, therefore, that war is not merely an act of policy but a true political instrument, a continuation of political intercourse carried on with other means. What remains peculiar to war is simply the peculiar nature of its means._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to [2013ann](http://www.2013ann.tumblr.com) for allowing me to embed their art in this fic. The original source for the image can be found on their Tumblr [here](http://2013ann.tumblr.com/post/146453865132/doodoo-away). The quotes that preface each chapter are taken from _[On War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_War)_ by [Carl von Clausewitz](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_von_Clausewitz), specifically whichever English-language translation I liked the best for each passage.

_When all is said and done, it really is the commander's_ coup d'œil [“stroke of the eye”] _, his ability to see things simply, to identify the whole business of war completely with himself, that is the essence of good generalship._ [...] _an intellect which, even in the midst of this intense obscurity, is not without some traces of inner light, which lead to the truth, and then the courage to follow this faint light._

Winter Schnee did _not_ want to be here.

Some part of her knew she should try to hide that fact, but she knew just as well that that wasn't likely to succeed. For all the iciness of her name and image, Winter Schnee had never been particularly adept at hiding her emotions. Her blood ran hot, and she ran with it. Which, she distantly noted, was part of the reason why she _was_ here in the first place.

Here: Atlas Academy, formerly known as Alsius, relatively known as ' _the place Winter Schnee had been banished to_ '. Built around a fortress that pre-dated gunpowder, the Academy was otherwise in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Or, more importantly - a six-hour airship ride from her father's manor in the capital. And he hadn't exactly been begging her to visit often when she'd left. Or seen her off to aerodrome. Or the front door.

An involuntary shudder at the cold shook Winter's body, but the fire in her veins kept her warm. She might not want to be here - standing at attention in the Academy's courtyard for what was approaching three hours - but like _hell_ was she going to let something as petty as the cold break her. It wasn't snowing, which was a small mercy, but the temperature was well below the point of freezing, and a bitter arctic wing stung at every inch of exposed skin.

She figured that that effect was intentional, perhaps the reason Atlas Academy started in winter instead of in spring like the other schools. The entire class of freshmen, hundreds of teenagers from across Atlas and the rest of Remnant, stood at attention while the Headmaster made a few moments' small talk with them all. _Every. Single. Student_. A few of her soon-to-be classmates had already withdrawn from the courtyard, unable to bear a cold that blued skin and froze bones. And whatever anyone believed, Winter Schnee was no more immune to the cold than the rest of them. Just twice again as stubborn.

" _Hey_ ," a voice to Winter's left called out, high-pitched and feminine. It belonged to someone who'd been trying to catch her eye for some time now. Winter ignored it. The Headmaster was still dozens of students away from her position in the receiving line, but she was using every power of observation she possessed to study him. Get a handle on his body language, his cadence, his movements and mannerism, lest she be caught flat-footed by him.

" _Helloooo_." Winter kept ignoring her. She wasn't here to make small talk or friends, neither of which she'd had much success with growing up. Her father might have banished her to the Academy in an attempt to tame his shrew, but Winter was at least going to salvage a first-rate education in the process, if nothing else. She didn't need _distractions_. "Hey… hey you're Jacques Schnee's daughter, aren't you?" Winter's jaw tightened. "What by the Shattered Moon did you fuck up to end up out here?"

"My name is _Winter_ ," she hissed back, shooting her darkest look at the woman beside her. "And I have better things to do with my time than _gossip_."

That sentence brushed against the real reason for her irritation: ' _I have better things to do than be here at all_ '. Its prestigious reputation notwithstanding, Winter could come up with a list a mile long of things she'd rather spend the next four years doing than grinding away in the cloistered confines of Atlas Academy.

To Winter's mild surprise, the woman beside her didn't flinch, or cower, or explode. She just grinned the grin of someone who'd gotten _exactly_ what they'd wanted. Namely a _response_. "Don't worry, my fair Winter, I know your name. Just not what you did to piss off the family patriarch."

Winter said nothing, having already mentally categorized the woman beside her as at _best_ a waste of air and space. Less charitably, she was likely one of the thousands of parasites Winter had grown up around, oh-so-desperate to insinuate themselves into the good graces of the Schnee family. Faking friendship or irreverence was _hardly_ an original stratagem. Winter had long since found that ignoring the aspiring sycophants was usually the most efficient route…

"This is the part where you say, ' _I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage_ ', and ask for my name," the woman prattled on, almost infuriatingly indifferent to Winter's iciness.

"I don't particularly care," Winter replied, honestly, eyes forward again.

"Is yours a _misanthropic_ persona, or was Grandma telling the truth about Schnees being able to smell Adels at a hundred yards?" To her own annoyance, Winter's head once more twitched sideways at the words, catching that playful grin again. That smile of victory. "It's true: I'm an Adel, blue-blooded as you. Well, almost. We do everything in leather instead of ivory." She shrugged. "I think it looks prettier anyways."

"… so what is your name? Or would you rather I just call you _Adel_?" Winter managed to make the surname into a slur, just like her father did.

"Xocolātl. Xocolātl Adel, at your service," replied the other woman, with an easy smile and a faint bow of her head. "There's a macron over the 'a', please don't forget it. But my friends can call me Chalk."

" _Mm_ ," acknowledged Winter, in a tone suggesting that she was filing that last datum away under 'Information I Will Never Need to Know'.

Unfortunately for Winter, Chalk was an aggressively good read of character. And she could recognize _curiosity_ when she saw it. "So, Winter Schnee, you never did answer my question."

Something treacherous tugged at the corner of Winter's cheek. "No, _Adel_ , I suppose I did not." The Headmaster was close enough that Winter could hear the murmur of his voice, if not the words themselves. To his credit, the Headmaster seemed to be as unfazed by the cold as he expected his students to be. And Adel seemed more distraught by the blandness of her uniform than the sub-zero temperatures.

" _Spoilsport_ ," teased back Chalk in reply. "I'll go first, if it makes you feel any less nervous." It was an artless bit of baiting that nevertheless rankled Winter. "To make a long story very short and very dull, I maxed out _one_ too many credit cards, on the same night Daddy's million-lien car got blown to smithereens." If the Adel girl felt any remorse for her actions she was concealing it _exceptionally_ well. 

"So Adels truly _are_ as decadent as the tabloids say. How fascinating." Chalk _hummed_ contentedly in reply, clearing giving not a whit what Winter had read. Something in the woman's unabashed honesty struck a chord with the Schnee, despite herself, eliciting an impulse to reciprocate she'd been taught all her life to suppress. "…I'm here because my _father_ ," something venous slipping into that last noun, "thinks that it would be good for my self-discipline if I spent a few years in a military academy."

"Ahhh. Figures. My dad's pretty much the same, except I'm pretty sure he's given up at this point." Chalk shrugged, smiling half-heartedly as she did.

"Can't imagine why," Winter responded, but the jibe seemed to pluck Chalk from her momentary melancholy.

"Your Dad and the Headmaster go back a ways, right? I've heard they're pretty buddy-buddy when it comes to clearing Grimm from potential Dust mines."

"A stable supply of Dust is vital to the safety of all the Kingdoms in Remnant," Winter hissed back, unable to suppress a reflexive defense of her inheritance. Winter glanced to her right. "We'll talk _later_."

The Headmaster was close enough that the Adel woman had the good sense to shut up (at least for a few minutes). Not that Winter was getting a vibe of 'deferential respect for authority' from this Adel, but there was no sense in making an ass of yourself this early in the school year. Or perhaps Winter's offer of a conversation in the future had bought her a few moments reprieve in the present.

Winter redirected her focus to the Headmaster, hoping the frostbite nipping at her ears wouldn’t impair their function for a few minutes more. The conversations, from what fragments she could overhear, were largely the formulaic. A polite introduction and welcome. A quick question about the student's background, and a follow-up. Maybe one or two sentences about a subject of interest.

Adel snapped to attention as the Headmaster stood in front of her, giving Chalk a once-over with an eye well-versed in rapid assessments. Winter wanted to _wince_ at how wide Chalk's grin was, even as the Adel's fingers were turning a very morbid shade of blue.

"Xocolātl Adel," stated the Headmaster. They weren't organized in any kind of alphabetical line, which seemed slightly unusual given the Academy's reputation for discipline, and Winter wondered just how exactly he was recalling every student's name. Surely he hadn't committed the names and faces of hundreds of freshmen to memory, but then… "Thank you for choosing Atlas Academy."

"Thrilled to be here, sir," replied Chalk, _way_ too enthusiastically. She was halfway into a curtsey when she caught herself, snapping upright into a martial salute as per protocol. The Headmaster raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I'll show you just what the Adel name is worth, sir."

"I don't doubt it," stated the Headmaster, offering her a reassuring nod. "How is Brennan these days?"

Chalk tensed ever-so-slightly, a child's unease at hearing their father addressed so familiarly. "Fine, sir. But I think Coco's going to drive him even crazier than I do. Did."

The Headmaster chuckled to himself, before offering Chalk an approving nod. The Adel - familial reputation for irreverence notwithstanding - visibly relaxed as he moved on.

"Winter... _Winter Schnee_."

Winter's spine, if possible, managed to straighten even straighter.

"Headmaster Ironwood," replied Winter, offering a salute that was surprisingly crisp given her unfamiliarity with the motion. "Or do you prefer 'General', sir?"

Ironwood looked at her discerningly. "As you are no doubt aware, Schnee, the two are ultimately one and the same." He paused for a long moment. "Whichever you choose is correct, though 'Headmaster' is more customary within these walls."

"Understood, sir." Winter remained at attention, waiting for the follow-up question Ironwood seemed to have prepared for every student in line (if that was actually possible). If he'd asked Chalk ( _Adel!_ ) about ‘Brennan’ than she had little doubt what would be directed _her_ way. James Ironwood, after all, was possibly the closest thing her father had to a friend anymore.

"Have you successfully Summoned anything yet, Schnee?"

Winter blinked, a foot scraping backwards in surprise. "Sir?" Ironwood tilted his head slightly, but gave her the time to fumble for words. She cleared her throat. "Not completely, sir. I've had some preliminary success, but my father has... _discouraged_... me from practicing without professional supervision."

"…Supervision which he has no doubt been slow in providing." The words hung in the air for a long moment, the implications drifting down like snowflakes. "I look forward to hearing more from you, Schnee."

" _Sir_." Was all Winter could get out, her chest suddenly tight, as the Headmaster moved down to the next student in line.

Chalk leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "Looks like _someone_ made a friend," she murmured, in a teasing lilt.

Some part of Winter’s subconscious knew that Chalk was off by one. Though it still hadn’t figured out in which direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are the blessings of water for my crops and good health for my livestock. At the very least, they keep me sane & motivated. Even a short sentence letting me know that you dis/liked it goes a long way to making me feel like I'm not shouting into the void :D
> 
> Chalk Adel is definitely the most _actually_ OC original character I have ever written. I've never been really one for OCs, but canon did not exactly give me a lot to work with when it comes to 'characters who are around Winter's age'. She'll grow on you, I promise.
> 
> Unsolicited trivia: "coup d'œil" is commonly used to refer to a commander's ability to assess the progress of a battle in the sweep of an eye (at least, back in the days of Grand Armies and the like). Clausewitz may have attributed the success of Napoléon Bonaparte to the Corsican's _coup d'œil_.
> 
> Fair warning - remaining chapter lengths are going to have absolutely zero rhyme or reason. They _should_ be posted on a daily basis.


	2. Friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everything is very simple in War, but the simplest thing is difficult. These difficulties accumulate and produce a friction which no man can imagine exactly who has not seen War._

Winter’s first fight lasted all of forty seconds.

Her sparring partner was selected almost completely at random, as the teachers did not yet have enough data on their students’ capabilities to make balanced matches. Winter, as a statistical enigma, was paired with a young man from the provinces who made a show of twirling what looked like a pair of bladed boomerangs from Menagerie. He’d offered Winter a brief salute before dropping into a fighting stance, something picked up from one of Atlas’ less-than-prestigious combat academies.

In retrospect, Winter realized it shouldn’t have taken her all forty seconds.

Only the fact that this was her first real sparring match had slowed Winter down. His weapon was heavy enough that it would’ve strained Winter to block it with her sword, but she was thrice too fast for any of his blows to come remotely close to striking her. After having spent almost twenty seconds cautiously circling her adversary, sizing up a man who’s fighting style was completely unfamiliar to her, Winter slipped inside his guard and obliterated his Aura before the audience could do much more than blink.

She sheathed her sword and slowed her breaths, doing her best not to think of what all those eyes on her were thinking.

* * *

It was an old tradition - though who started it nobody seemed to remember - that the Headmasters and Headmistresses of the major Huntsmen academies all taught one class a year. Something about keeping them from becoming pure administrators was the usual explanation. Professor Ozpin of Vale was teaching second-year philosophy this semester. Profession Lionheart of Haven taught fourth-years Advanced Grimm Metaphysics, of which he was a world-renowned scholar.

James Ironwood taught first-year History. Though there was far more than History being taught in those classes.

Most students (and some faculty) rolled their eyes at this, at the prospect of a series of boilerplate lectures they would have to pay more than token attention to. Nobody relished teaching Huntsmen-in-training social sciences courses, because that was not what any of them had enrolled to learn. The students, for their part, usually powered through the ‘mandatory breadth requirements’ with an efficiency of effort that would have been praiseworthy in another context.

Not Winter, of course. She was here to graduate _summa cum laude_ from a program that still carried a _lot_ of prestige. And as indifferent as she might ultimately have been to Atlas Academy’s educational curriculum, she had internalized her father’s belief that Schnees were, simply, _better_ than other people. And like _hell_ was Winter Schnee ever going to be anything less than the best.

Winter took the same front-and-center seat she always did. Unlike other Team Leaders, Winter didn’t insist that her teammates sit beside her whenever possible. As long as they kept their grades up Winter didn’t consider it her job to hold each teammate’s hand...

….or that of the already-dozing Chalk Adel, who would _inevitably_ come mewling for her notes. Winter had already decided that Chalk was getting a hard _no_ on any such requests, even if the Adel _could_ decrypt her archaic shorthand.

Headmaster Ironwood strolled into the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, paying apparent scant attention to the students as he opened up a leatherbound attaché case and unpacked a few papers from it. Winter watched him with an observant eye. His movements were smooth and controlled, the gestures of a career military officer - Winter had been around enough growing up to know the type. Interesting enough a man as Ironwood was, Winter’s expectations remained fairly low. Career soldiers tended to be fairly similar, she'd found, and doubly so in Atlas, where homogeneity and predictability were prized. Ironwood’s lectures, much like his career, would no doubt be well-delivered, technically-proficient, inoffensive, and uninspiring.

His opening remarks did little to sway her of that belief. He made the formulaic statement that he would be teaching this course just like any other professor, and that he expected his students to treat him no better or worse. An impossible feat, of course, given that he was nominally one of the most powerful men in all of Remnant, but everyone nodded in agreement at the cue. He then dove into a lecture he’d probably given dozens of times in the past. Even Winter struggled to remain engaged.

“...The most important question, the one I ask all my students at the beginning of each semester, is _why_ do we study history. Is it-”

A hand shot up from the back of the class, and a voice followed soon after: “Because those who fail to study history’s mistakes are doomed to repeat them!”

The Headmaster visibly stumbled, clearly not having anticipated anyone _actually_ taking him up on the whole ‘treat me like any other professor’ thing. “Yes, thank you, Miss Noir,” replied Ironwood, his cadence a little uneven. “...but that is ultimately a gross simplification.”

Winter blinked, slightly surprised at the avoidance of safe banality, but the Headmaster barreled onwards. “What lessons can be learned from the antebellum conflicts which comprise the majority of our course? I don’t think any of us are going to make the mistake of launching an army into eastern Vale without non-perishable supplies…. _again_." That earned him a few chuckles. "We are unlikely to respond to the Plague of Sneewittchen with bloodthirsty crusades as our ancestors did. Nor are we likely to fall under the sway of the Cult of the Grimm Resplendent, as occurred during the Witches’ Schism. The world of Remnant today is too dissimilar to that of pre-modern times for one to be an approximate analogy for the other. Certain lessons can be learned, I will readily concede, but there is a danger to always looking to the past for precedent and answers. We risk falling under the sway of false comparisons, of making our evidence fit pre-existing patterns, if we pursue that truism too vigorously.”

The Headmaster turned his back on the class, strolling back and forth in a comfortable form of pacing. “Some of my colleagues would disagree with me, but I would argue that, for the most part, the value of studying history as a military officer is learning how to _think_. When most of you think of history you no doubt groan at the prospect of memorizing an endless list of names and dates.” He smiled softly to himself. “There will be some of that, of course, but only so much as is required to understand the context and narrative of events."

“So, wait, there _will_ still be dates on the test?” another student whom Winter was considering decapitating called out.

“Yes, Mister Rosa, there will still be dates. But as both a professor and an officer, I am _far_ more interested in reviewing how you process information. Can you explain why events unfolded the way they did? Identify causal factors, if any can be teased out? _That_ is what I expect you to take away from this course.”

Winter leaned back in her chair. She stared down at her notepad a moment later, blinking in surprise when she realized she hadn’t put pen to paper for the entirety of his digression.

* * *

Her second fight last longer, and was more satisfying, but it was a difference of a few degrees. Her adversary that time was another team leader, a spry woman with a quarterstaff who barely broke five feet. She knew how to use her Semblance, too - Winter didn’t know the exact mechanics, but it selectively increased the woman’s ability to absorb a blow, and rendered her completely immobile in the process. Something she actually used to her advantage to defy the laws of momentum with her staff.

It took Winter almost four minutes to take her down.

It was strange, fighting against someone with a completely unknown combat style (and who was actually _competent_ with it). Heretofore Winter’s sparring partners had all been chosen by her father: reputable, retired Huntsmen who'd fought in the conventional manner she might expect an attacker off the street to employ. Experienced though they were Winter inevitably learned the patterns of their motions, the movements of their techniques, the intricacies of their little tricks. Those tutors had held very little of interest for Winter by the time she left for Atlas Academy.

Sparrow was different. She moved not like anyone Winter had ever fought, but like no woman she had ever heard of. It took Winter a long minute to realize that Sparrow seemed to be able to redirect her momentum at will, to spin and gyrate and dive at angles that defied Newtonian physics. Sparrow - consciously or otherwise - exploited Winter’s familiarity with conventional dueling exchanges, weaving and flowing in a way that Winter found maddeningly difficult to anticipate. The _smack_ of the quarterstaff against her body was the penalty for her lethargy.

Winter’s Aura had dropped to below 40% by the time she figured Sparrow out. The devilish woman, for all her trickery, still needed to know where she _herself_ was going. With years of training she might have figured out how to exploit her unpredictability to its maximum, but then and there, she relied on predictable vectors as crutches. _Those_ Winter was able to deduce quick enough, and Sparrow was not a particularly skilled defensive fighter.

Sparrow _turned_ at an angle that once again defied all the laws of momentum, only to find Winter’s swords already waiting for her. Sparrow was used to being overpowered - beaten by attacks she had no possibility of dodging or absorbing - but being out- _maneuvered_ was something of a shock.

Winter’s breaths came fast and heavy as the siren that ended the match was sounded. She wiped the sweat from her brow and the smile from her face. It wouldn’t be _proper_ to show just how much Winter Schnee enjoyed a good _scrap_.

* * *

A piece of what looked like scrap metal was laid across the desk at the front of the classroom.

At first Winter thought it was some bizarre prank, some bored students from the Engineering Corps fulfilling an Initiation requirement, or something. But the Headmaster strolled in, punctual as an Atlesian hyperloop, and took in the wreck of metal with one approving nod.

“For those of you who haven’t looked me up in the _Encyclopædia Valencia_ , my background was originally in Engineering,” began Ironwood, in that soft-yet-formal tone of his. Winter had looked up _far_ more than just his biographical article. “One of my first assignments was on the airship _Vikare_.” He paused, waiting for his audience to take that in. Despite it having happened decades before they were born, the destruction of the _Vikare_ was still burned into the collective psyches of the youngest generations. “Yes, _that_ _Vikare_. Before you ask any questions, let me tell you now that there were _far_ fewer romantic liaisons in the engine bay then the movie would have you believe.”

Even Winter chuckled a little at that. She had watched that movie with Weiss a dozen times and _still_ teared up whenever that famous ' _Never say goodbye_ ' line was uttered.

“Now you may have been too polite to ask aloud, but you no doubt are all wondering what this warped and blackened hunk of metal before me has to do with anything. Besides proving the structural integrity of my desk." Ironwood strolled up to his desk, one hand gently coming to a rest atop the hunk of metal. For a brief moment a sense of _impropriety_ flickered through Winter's mind, as if she was watching a museum visitor touch a priceless artifact.

“This, as far as we have been able to determine, is all that remains of the dilithium overflow buffer from the _Vikare_. Those of you who are ahead of your readings for modern combat engineering” - and Winter most certainly was one of them- “will know that this is the capacitor through which all energy from crystalline Dust is ultimately processed. It is also forms the metaphorical ‘hull’ of modern airships. When we were attacked by the largest Grimm horde in twenty years, this was the piece of engineering we relied on to keep us in the air.”

He let that linger in the audience for a few long moments.

“If you're familiar with the Board of Inquiry’s findings then you'll know that, _no_ , there was nothing defective with the buffer. No contractors cutting corners, no hubristic engineers, no _damned foolish_ commanders.” It was clear to Winter that Ironwood was quoting someone unknown to them at the end there. “It had been thoroughly tested, both as a prototype and a finished product, against every conceivable Grimm attack we could simulate. Quite simply, the buffer failed because it was subjected to a high-resonance shockwave from a Sea Dragon-class Grimm that had never before been properly documented. We couldn’t possibly have planned for that, could not have tested or designed for it. And when the moment of truth came…”

The hulking heap of charred metal, warped and thrawn, was all the explanation he needed.

* * *

Team Battles were harder.

Winter was the Team Leader, true, but even she’d (grudgingly) admit that leadership was not her forte. She was a first-class tactician, to be sure, able to employ her teammates to the best of their abilities, but she _commanded_ more than she _lead_. Winter had very little tolerance for screw-ups and slip-ups, no instinct for the gradual modulation of fighting styles required to form a coherent, capital- _T_ Team.

She would never have made Team Leader at any of the other major Academies in Remnant, but Atlas was special for a reason. She was of noble birth, intelligent, well-spoken, and competent with technical details. She had ‘ _officer_ ’ written all over her face, and in Atlas Academy, that translated exactly to ‘Team Leader’.

The relationships between the members of her Team were _professional_ , and that was about the most that could be said. She inspired others by leading by example, by never asking anyone to do anything she herself wouldn’t... but that was it. She was not the Team Leader to talk to about a broken heart or a wounded ego. They trained, studied and fought together, functionally if not enthusiastically. Two of Winter’s teammates seemed to be drifting into a relationship with one another, and withdrawing from the rest of the team in the process. Winter felt herself unable to do anything but watch, at a loss for what if anything she was supposed to do.

Winter’s team was never defeated in any of their full-team training matches. In one semester that amounted to twelve wins, zero defeats, and one bout that was technically nullified due to a glitch in the Aura counters. In seven of those matches, Winter was the only member of her team standing when the referees finally ended things. On an individual level, that was an incredible record, the kind that started getting tossed about between the military recruiters who circled the Academy like buzzards. As a leader, however, it was very difficult to view that as anything but failure. A battle won with casualties of three-fourths of one’s force was a pyrrhic victory indeed.

Winter was at the top of every class, excelling like she had at everything she did in life and _then_ some, driven by something deep within her psyche. She studied the hardest, trained the hardest, fought the hardest. Her Teammates were all respectable fighters in their own rights, some faster, some stronger, some tougher. 

But none were _better_. And Winter didn’t know how to work with that. So, by and large, she simply _didn’t_.

* * *

“Someone more clever than myself once said that most men go through life not knowing they are cowards. While I disagree with his assumption that _most_ men are cowards, I agree with the underlying sentiment. Most civilians, even those living beyond the walls of Remnant’s Kingdoms, will never be put in a situation where they willingly place their lives on the line. And if they do, it is because they are conscripts in an army, or pressed by their peers into a rural militia. Very few men will ever be tested to the point where their true nature is revealed. Because as was the case of the _Vikare_ , it is all but impossible to create such a test.”

Ironwood paused for a moment, surveying his audience. “And before I get an angry Scroll message from the administrators, I should clarify that everything I’ve said applies to _women_ as well.” There were a few polite chuckles at his light-hearted jibe, mostly to diffuse the tension of the remarks immediately preceding them. But Winter couldn’t help noticing that his eyes had lingered over her as he spoke them.

“Before we go any further, I would like to make it clear that, on the whole, I consider this to be a _good_ thing. That so few men are subjected to the crucible of combat is a sign of civilization, not feebleness, as some armchair generals might complain on late-night talk shows.

“But those of you who choose to continue with the Atlas Royal Army will be _challenged_ , in a way that neither you nor anyone else can entirely predict. The kind of ordeal that will show if you are another _Vikare_ waiting to happen. Our literature is filled with legendary sagas of ancient heroes, but there is a reason there are no epics about men who were never tested.” There was no missing whom his eyes were wandering over _that_ time.

“And on the subject of tests, please power down your Scrolls. The subject for the in-class essay will appear on the screens above momentarily…”

* * *

Winter Schnee, while undefeated in sparring bouts, didn’t actually have the highest record in Academy history. It wasn’t even all that close, since sparring matches had used to comprise a much larger percentage of the Academy’s curriculum a generation or two ago. Short of a complete overhaul of the Academy’s academic doctrine, Winter would never have the opportunity to beat the 99-0-1 record that had held for the last fifty-seven years.

That wasn’t to say she wasn’t very, _very_ good.

Students in Atlas were paired up algorithmically, unless a teacher directly intervened. The algorithm weighed a number of variables, including win/lose ratio, but also the length of the matches and the Aura remaining at the end of each fight. Within a week of sparring Winter was the top-seeded combatant in her class. By the end of the month the computers had decided that there was no 1-on-1 match that could possibly be fair, and was pitting two adversaries against her at a time.

By the end of the second month, Winter didn’t get in the ring for anything less than 4-on-1.

Jacques Schnee may never have approved of his daughters’ more romanticist fantasies, but swordsmanship had been taught to every noble since before the Great War, and that meant that Winter had had all the excuses she’d ever needed to practice. Her father might have _strongly discouraged_ her from Summoning - he had never _quite_ been able to overcome that bit of jealousy that came with marrying-into the bloodline - but she’d had the best tutors money could buy for just about everything else.

Team SPQR was good, or at the very least _competent_ , denying Winter the cathartic relief of a one-sided curb-stomp. And they had their pride on the line, because whatever Winter’s standing in the rankings, _nobody_ wanted to be on the team that lost with that large of a handicap. So they kept their heads, communicated readily, strategized, and fought with the fury of ten men apiece.

There was no longer a way of disguising the fact that Winter Schnee actually _relished_ a good fight...

* * *

“To say simply that it was a ‘decline in the moral fiber of the people’ is a dangerous oversimplification,” said Ironwood, in that firm yet fair tone of his. “I know that it is somewhat… _satisfying_ … to blame the fall of the Evergreen Kingdom on the declining vigor of its people-”

“-They stopped caring about war,” piped up a student near the front, sounding scornful even as he spoke.

“If anything, they cared even _more_ about war,” corrected the Headmaster. “If you were to look at court records for the Late Kingdom period, you see that everyone down to the lowest members of the nobility had a martial rank in their title. Swords and armor were part of all ceremonial dress. Military insignias were incorporated into family heraldry. How does a society so obsessed with war, honor and glory allow itself to be overwhelmed by nomads who’d been pastoral farmers not two seasons before?”

Even Winter Schnee, her pen flowing like quicksilver over her notepad, did not have an easy explanation for that.

“It is something of an unfair question. The nobility of the antebellum Kingdoms were almost a society of themselves. Perhaps the nobles were once in touch with the peasant classes they came from, but by the Late Kingdoms era the peasantry and the nobility barely knew the other existed. The nobles paid no taxes, built no public works, were accountable to no voters. They demanded - and were granted - the right to command armies, without ever having drilled as a footsoldier. If you ever read the Court Proceedings of the Althing, you can see how fundamentally _bewildered_ the nobles of the day were by the fact that savage horsemen refused to lay down and die on their schedule. That peasant conscripts would not throw away their lives defending manors they were never allowed to set foot in."

Ironwood's hands clasped behind his back, the Headmaster strolling pensively as he ruminated. "To return to the point I made at the beginning of the semester: history does not repeat itself." He stopped pacing, staring out at his class. " But you are aware of the political realities of the present. I'm sure many of you are following the… _developments_ … in Haven. History does not repeat itself, but it does, on occasion, rhyme."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team SPQR, in case you were wondering, is pronounced "Sparkler", evocative of the bright fireworks. There's absolutely nothing self-amusing about that reference. And +100 Internet points for the _RvB_ Easter Egg.
> 
> Actual Author's Notes: Okay, text-heavy, but that's what happens when you try to write a _bona fide_ lecture, to my genuine surprise. Some fairly self-indulgent monologues, I'll be the first to admit. And I got to use the word 'thrawn' in a sentence, so this is a good day. This is fast-approaching the longest amount of time I've staggered the release of a fic, and it's a surprisingly nerve-wracking experience. I remember why I write one-shots.


	3. Character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Strength of character does not consist solely in having powerful feelings, but in maintaining one’s balance in spite of them._

Xocolātl "Chalk" Adel spun the taps of the shower shut, humming mirthfully to herself as she began toweling off at a decadently lethargic pace. Winter had asked her (on more than one occasion, and with growing irritation) to sing less in the shower, and _humming_ was as low as Chalk had been willing to bargain. There were a lot of perks that came with being a team leader, she'd discovered, not the least of which was having to share a shower with only _one_ other person. Even if that person had the misfortune of being born a Schnee, and a particularly frigid one at that. Chalk was mostly glad that it meant the vanity was pretty much never overcrowded.

Atlas Academy was different from the other academies in many ways, not the least of which was its approach to team dynamics. Winter and Chalk were both the leaders of four-person teams, and unlike at the other academies, that meant that _they_ would be the ones sharing a room. It was a relic of the Academy's more martial heritage that the 'officers' of the student body were kept separate from the teammates they lead. The idea being to instill a sense of hierarchy, preparing students for the norms of military life, if and when they enlisted.

Chalk moved through her post-shower cosmetology routine at her usual, leisurely tempo - body butter, leave-in conditioner, moisturizing lip balm - before tossing on a bathrobe with the words _ADEL PLAZA HOTEL_ embroidered on the chest…

…Winter Schnee tapped something on her Scroll as soon as Chalk exited the bathroom. "Forty-seven minutes, nineteen seconds, Adel. That might be a new record."

Chalk grinned, tossing herself on Winter's bed in the friendliest invasion of personal space. "I missed you too, _mon amour_."

Winter snorted at her roommate's flair for the dramatic. Chalk had done nothing to disabuse Winter of her belief that Adels were a bunch of hapless hedonists with loose grips on both propriety and reality. But they still hadn't killed each other yet, which was certainly… _something_.

"Oh, Winter dearest, what’s the news with that tube?"

Winter glanced up from her Scroll at the woman occupying the other half of her bed. It took her a few moments to figure out what Chalk was talking about, her roommate gesturing with her head to the elongated cylinder propped up by the door.

"Oh. That came in the mail," said Winter, her eyes returning to her screen, sounding rather pointedly disinterested.

Chalk hopped out of bed and plodded across their shared dorm room, bare feet slapping loudly on the wooden floors. The would-be inheritor of the Adel clan name picked up the tube, squinting at the text on the label. "It's for you, my precious Winter."

"I know," Winter responded, eyes still glued to her Scroll.

"From, hm, _Vytal Commemorative Printing Services, GmbH_."

"I _know_ ," Winter repeated, a bit more forcefully. Chalk glanced at her roommate, a grin creeping to her face as she saw the red of a blush coloring Winter's pale skin.

Chalk took her time circling back to Winter's bed, tube in hand, swaying _to_ and _fro_ as she did. Once it became clear that Winter was making an effort to _ignore_ her, well…

"I suppose you won’t mind if I open it up for you…" Chalk began, her tone suspiciously casual.

She managed to get one fingernail beneath the shrink-wrap before Winter snatched it from her hands with the fury of an angry god.

"That is _my_ property, Adel," snapped Winter, though it was oh-so-clearly defensive bluster. "You are no more welcome to it than you were to my toothpaste."

Chalk rolled her eyes. "It's not like it had your _name_ on it," she teased, pretending there was any ambiguity as to who had owned the tube of Shi-nee brand toothpaste. "So, come on, my snowflake, what is it?"

"It's a _poster_ , if you must know," said Winter, managing to speak and scowl at the same time.

Chalk blinked, actually somewhat surprised at the answer. Winter hadn’t exactly brought a lot of personal effects with her to Atlas Academy. "… And, pray tell, we're not hanging it up right now because…?"

"Because I have no _intention_ of hanging it up," Winter stated, sullenly. "I just wanted to own it." She drew her knees slightly closer as she spoke, and for perhaps the first time Chalk saw the seventeen-year old girl still (ostensibly) within Winter.

"Come on, Winter, if I'm hanging six framed Achieve Men posters then you're putting up at least _one_." Chalk extended her hand, palm up, eyes expectant. Adels were not known for being easily discouraged.

The tube was slapped into her hand a moment later. Chalk suppressed a triumphant grin as she began prying the packaging open. The poster itself was fairly large, 18 by 24 inches, but rolled up as it was Chalk couldn't make out what was on it.

And Winter seemed determined for her to remain in that state of ignorance for as long as humanly possible. They unrolled the poster together, face-down on the floor. Each corner of the poster had a small tab, which when peeled off activated strips charged with Gravity Dust, which would cause the poster to stick to any surface without damage. A small percentage of the purchase price of the poster would actually find its winding way back into Winter's inheritance.

The two roommates did their best to affix the poster straightly, which was made all-the-more difficult by Winter's reluctance to meaningfully contribute, but they completed the task all the same. After a long, foreboding pause, the two women stepped back from the wall, and Chalk took it in for the first time…

And a shockingly handsome young man stared back at them…

" _Wow_ ," said Chalk, genuinely flabbergasted in a way most atypical for an Adel.

"You know, Adel, if you have something snarky to say, you can just keep it to yourself," Winter stated, acidly.

Chalk raised her hands in surrender. "Not at all, Winter, darling. It's just…" She groped clumsily for words. "Team IRNN. One of the easier acronyms, no?"

 _Team IRNN, (pronounced "Iron"), was a team of four-person Huntsmen team originally from Atlas Academy, lead by future Councilor and General James Ironwood._ Winter had only read the online encyclopedia article a dozen-plus times, long after she'd committed every word to memory. _Comprised of James Ironwood, Roderick Gletscher, Norman Duna, and Alyxandra de Nuit._ _The Team won both the 25 th and 27nd Vytal Festival Tournaments, becoming one of only three teams in history to win on multiple occasions_.

He was a leader, in the true sense of the word. Winter was beginning to accept that that would likely never be her destiny. _Envy_ wasn't the right word to describe the feelings she felt, but she wasn't sure what was…

The poster was a promotional composite, made during their second of two Tournament appearances. Nobody had been expecting them to win, Winter had learned, as defending a Tournament championship was exceptionally difficult. Every Team they went up against would have had the luxury of studying their weapons and tactics for two whole years, of having the time to develop a strategy tailor-made to take them down. IRNN had won again anyways.

Winter had to admit it was strange, seeing a near-enough life-sized recreation of Headmaster Ironwood from decades ago. His actual appearance hadn't changed all that much: younger, yes, but the same short black hair, the same chiseled jaw. His facial hair was grown out to a five o'clock shadow, just a splash of masculine ruggedness, his eyes hard and narrowed. Seeing him out of uniform remained a somewhat disconcerting experience, but he looked good - fashionable, even, if in a kind of timeless manner. A long coat and a billowing cape, the kind of sartorial choices that would've looked ridiculous on a mere mortal but somehow oh-so-right on a Huntsman.

"So when I said 'you need to find a nice young man to date', Winter darling," Chalk began, speaking as if traversing a tightrope, "I was imagining that that man would be young…. in the present."

It was hard to growl menacingly and blush profusely at the same time, but Winter Schnee managed it.

* * *

"…and while I've only seen the recordings from her sparring sessions, she really is a cut above all of her classmates. Her swordsmanship is excellent, her use of Glyphs is _masterful_ , and if there's a freshman student who understands the combat applications of Dust as well as she does then I've yet to encounter them. She could probably pass the Operative qualification exams _now_ if she took them, she'd make _Specialist_ with just a bit more training…"

General James Ironwood, a man who had once beaten an Ursa to death while bleeding profusely from a hole where his left arm had been seconds prior, felt something _hot_ on the back of his neck as he suddenly became aware of _just_ how uncharacteristically he'd been gushing.

Peter Port, a Huntsmen along whose side he had bled, toiled, teared and sweated, raised an impossibly-bushy eyebrow at the monologue. Glynda had her default, vaguely unimpressed expression on her face. Ozpin looked mildly amused, though at what precisely was always somewhat difficult to gauge.

Teachers (almost) always compared students, as unprofessional as it might have been. Some of it could even be rationalize, due to the world they lived in, when each crop of freshmen brought with them the seeds of heretofore-unknown heroes. Everyone wanted to gossip about who'd snagged the next Geolwe Arc or Summer Rose. Most of it was just boastful pride. And Ozpin almost always won, though he was gracious enough not to gloat about it.

This was one such opportunity to compare. Not officially, of course - they never were: _this_ was simply a professional development conference for individuals in the Huntsmen education field. That they'd all stuck around long after the last of the day's symposiums had ended was just an odd coincidence.

"So, _Jimmy_ , found yourself a new teacher's pet?"

Ironwood bit his tongue (hard) to keep from saying something impolitic at the asinine lilt of Qrow Branwen. Why _exactly_ that _vagabond_ kept getting invited to Ozpin's little after-work drinking sessions remained slightly beyond Ironwood. He assumed it was some lingering guilt on Ozpin’s part about the whole STRQ… _debacle_. "Mr. Branwen. How kind of you to show up." Given the Huntsman's stagger, Ironwood was actually mildly impressed that he was still bipedal. "How's Taiyang doing?"

Qrow shrugged, unscrewing his flask as he did. "Being a single dad to two girls. Don't envy him there," Qrow answered, taking a swig. "Not that you care. And back to your new pet."

"Her _name_ is Winter Schnee, Mr. Branwen, and I'd appreciate you not calling my students ' _pets_ '."

Qrow seemed to miss the second part of the sentence entirely. " _Hah_ , a Schnee?" He chuckled, but there was no levity to his laugh. "Of course she would be."

"Not here, Qrow," Glynda implored, in a tone equal parts chiding and pleading. Nobody had the patience to sit through Qrow's diatribes against the Schnees when the man was _sober_ , let alone when he was well and properly soused.

"I _am_ curious how you managed to steal her away from Mister Jacques Schnee," stated the newly-styled 'Doctor' Oobleck, a caffeine addict Ozpin had plucked from obscurity to be Beacon's newest teacher. Where the Valean Headmaster kept finding these… _characters_ … was a question Ironwood made a mental note to ask. "My understanding is that Winter Schnee is the heiress-apparent to the fabled fortunes of the Schnee Dust Company, leaving me somewhat _puzzled_ as to why a man as obsessively-controlling as Mister Schnee is reputed to be would send his daughter away for four years to train as, of all things, a _Huntress_."

The impressive thing was, Oobleck didn't even sound out of breath by the end of it. It took Ironwood's mind a good five seconds to parse that monster of a sentence.

"I did not _steal_ anyone away, Professor O-"

"Doctor-"

"-Doctor Oobleck, my apologies. Jacques Schnee has been finding Winter somewhat… _difficult_ …to manage. He's hoping that a few years at Atlas Academy will temper some of her more… _impassioned_ … instincts."

"Oh, so Jack wants you to be the one to break her and tame her," Qrow sneered.

Ironwood felt like he'd been struck. "I am not trying to _break_ anyone," he shot back, feeling something hot bubbling in his chest. But for once Qrow didn't respond with another venomous barb, just looked his dear friend Jimmy square in the eye.

And for once, it was Ironwood's gaze that broke first. He scowled pointlessly at something on the floor, feeling the unpleasantness of the accusation drape over them all like a wet blanket. It didn't take Ironwood long to recognize that nobody was going to be leaping to his defense.

"So I take Miss Schnee had expressed no interest in continuing in the field professionally, either as a Huntress or in the Army?"

Ozpin's voice, low and strangely melodic, ripped Ironwood from his reverie. "My understanding was that she is supposed to take a position with the SDC after graduation." Ironwood was painfully aware of how artlessly he'd dodged the question.

"Ah, such a shame to see good talent wasted," declared Port, with a hapless shrug.

Ironwood nodded in unspoken agreement, and stared into his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, not the best Clausewitz quote for an opening, but it's also reasonably close to Winter's advise to Weiss in "Lessons Learned" ( _Emotions can grant you strength. But you must never let them overpower you._ ) Next chapter would have been called "A Winter's Ball" if I could have thought of more _Hamilton_ song titles applicable to the other chapters. So you're going to be stuck with Clausewitzian phrases, sorry. 


	4. Fog of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _War is the realm of uncertainty; three quarters of the factors on which action in war is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty. A sensitive and discriminating judgment is called for; a skilled intelligence to scent out the truth._

"I will say one thing about you Adels… you do _hedonistic luxury_ like no one else."

Chalk chose to take that as a compliment Winter certainly had not intended it to be, _humming_ contentedly to herself as she picked out the pieces of her ensemble for the evening. This was, after all, supposed to be _her_ evening. _Well, kind of_. The Feast of Youloumain was the traditional celebration of Huntsmen and Huntresses, even if nowadays it was mostly an excuse to get sloshed in formal attire.

As Huntresses-in-training, both she and Winter were technically 'guests of honor' at the gala being thrown by one of the Old Money clans of Atlas. This year the Feast's date happened to overlap with a three-week break in the school year (a tradition dating back to when it had taken a week to _get_ anywhere in Atlas), which meant that Winter could actually attend without feeling guilty for her grade-point average.

(Chalk, of course, would have attended, quite guilt-free, irregardless.)

Winter strolled out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam behind her, wearing the same _ADEL PLAZA HOTEL_ -emblazoned bathrobe as Chalk had on. When Chalk had learned that she and Winter would be in the same city for the same gala, she all-but-insisted her roommate enjoy a complimentary stay at a five-star hotel that just happened to be eponymous. And while Winter Schnee was certainly no stranger to luxury, it turned out that literally _owning_ a hotel entitled you to perks she had never known existed. Complimentary kimono bathrobes were just the tip of a very large iceberg...

"Not to use your own, _heartless_ tricks against you, my precious Winter, but that _was_ thirty-two minutes in the bathroom. Someone less understanding than myself might say you're going soft."

Winter rolled her eyes. The _Chambre de Rois_ of the hotel was really more a decently-sized apartment than any room mere mortals might stay at, with enough beds to shelter a dozen-odd guests, depending on how familiar they were. Four bedrooms, three full-service bathrooms, two _smaller_ bathrooms, and a kitchen that any chef in Remnant would find more than serviceable. Yet - somehow - the two roommates had managed to put all their toiletries around the same sink.

"It's been awhile since I had to actually style my hair," Winter said by way of explanation, tilting her head slightly to better display the fruits of her labors. Like any woman of High Society she was no stranger to elaborate arrangements, but Winter had had to decline Chalk's invitation to a salon. She'd never had much patience for anything too complicated to manage alone, to her mother's continual disappointment. And her hairstyle at the Academy was usually no more than a strident bun or a tight ponytail.

" _Very_ fetching, dear," Chalk drawled. "It really is criminal how you keep it tied up all the time."

Winter a scowled a scowl Chalk had long since learned to ignore. "When you feel like growing your hair out another foot or two, Chalk, _then_ you can lecture me on it." Still, Winter took a measure of pleasure in noting that she hadn't lost any of her artistry (if an Adel's word could be trusted).

Chalk grinned, playing with the tips of her spiky bangs as she did. She kept her hair sheared short, quite the _no-no_ by the present whims of fashion, but Chalk hadn't been exiled to the Academy for caring unduly about what others thought was proper. "When your weapon has as many moving parts as mine does, well… I've learned to minimize the hazards to myself."

"Is this my cue to make a joke about the dangers of being seen with a Schnee?" Winter asked, as she stripped out of her bathrobe and tossed it over a chair. The gymnasium of Atlas Academy had communal showers, and after the first fortnight they'd all stopped going through the motions of scrupulous modesty.

"Winter, my aurora, nobody would _ever_ expect you to make a joke," teased Chalk, not glancing up from her nail file. "Certainly not a _self-deprecating_ one."

"Trollop."

"Ice Queen."

Their witty banter subsided as the two women resumed preparing for the ball. Chalk barricaded herself in the bathroom to apply her makeup in peace and quiet, leaving Winter to dress herself in private.

It was strange, walking back into her bedroom, at the scene she had unwittingly set for herself. On one side of the bed was her Atlas Academy uniform, a military officer’s in all but the minor details. She’d worn it on the trip over, Winter and Chalk having darted to the aerodrome directly after their final exam in order to catch the last airship of the day. (Chalk had explained that her request to borrow the family jet had been none-too-gently declined). The uniform was neatly folded, still crisp-edged from a recent ironing. Beside that was a dark-blue gown that cost more than a year's tuition, patterned with the stylized snowflakes that were the trademark of the SDC. She'd instructed her father's staff to send a gown to the hotel, having brought nothing of the requisite fashion with her to the Academy. Someone had apparently decided to interpret her request in a manner that her father would very much approve of…

Winter snorted a little to herself, dismissing the monochromatic dilemma she was trying to simply her situation into. Be a generic soldier for Atlas or glamorous doll for her father and his company. Of course it wasn't that simple. Life happened on that gradient of grays that Winter very much wished didn't exist some times. Becoming a soldier did not mean sacrificing her identity, nor did working for the Company mandate a pointless existence. 

What would the synthesis of those identities, of those _ideas_ be? Winter barely dared to wonder…

…She snapped herself back into the present. It was strange putting the dress on. The fabrics of her school uniform had not been selected for softness, and she'd grown used to the weight of the jacket and the warmth of the leggings. The dress was everything that those clothes weren't - silken to her skin, material so light it felt closer to a veil then proper coverings. Even as she'd slid into the elbow-length gloves that went with the dress it still felt like was she exposing an indelicate amount of flesh.

Chalk let out a wolf-whistle as Winter re-entered their common room, eliciting a pair of rolled eyes and a disappointed expression. Chalk grinned regardless. “Too juvenile a compliment for a divine Schnee?” she teased. “ _If the radiance of a thousand suns_ // _Were to burst at once into the sky_ // _That would be like the splendour of the Mighty One_ … Elegiac enough for my shimmering snowflake?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Chalk,” Winter chided, consciously declining to complete the quote. Chalk’s expression clearly begged to differ. “Come on, we’re almost fashionably late as it is.” The idea of being late _at all_ was something most Schnees found difficult on an apparently genetic level. “What was that pithy phrase you used to describe these rendezvous?”

“Lowlifes in high places?” Chalk offered, uncertainty. She said a _lot_ of things about High Society shindigs, varying pretty wildly with where her mood at that exact minute was.

Winter shrugged, clearly uncertain herself. “That’ll do. And don’t you dare abandon me out there…”

* * *

There were a lot of upsides to occupying two of the five seats of the Atlas Governing Council, James Ironwood knew. He usually had enough clout to act as deal-maker or deal-breaker on any particularly divisive policy issue. He had access to the best information the fabled Atlas intelligence community could produce. He’d never have to worry about his pension. He was entitled (through some truly archaic tradition) to four healthy calves and twelve fertile chickens each year, though he’d never actually collected on that one.

The _downside_ was that those seats made him an absolute _magnet_ for hangers-on.

This wasn't supposed to have been a business occasion. Back in the _Good Old Days_ , the Kings had actually proclaimed the red letter Feast Days to be holidays, with no markets to be opened nor goods to be traded, and for no labor to be done unless it was vital to the defense of the realm. Any number of exceptions to the 'mandatory' holiday had been carved out over the years, until merely a ghost of the public jubilations remained, but such was the tireless march of progress.

And so he _endured_ \- that was really the only verb to apply - drifting from one favor-seeking conversation to the next. The fact that his influence in Atlas was so wide only provided more surface area for his innumerous 'friends' to cling on to. Everyone wanted _'just two minutes'_ to discuss an airship procurement contract, or a discounted rate on Huntsmen services, or getting their spoiled brats into the most prestigious school on the continent...

"General Ironwood, what a pleasure to run into you here," greeted Jacques, with a mirth that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Ironwood managed one last sip from his whiskey glass. "Please: it's _James_ ," Ironwood stated.

"Alright, James," replied Jacques, with a readiness that suggested he wasn't exactly struggling to adjust to the informality. "May I borrow your ear for a few minutes?"

Ironwood made a small bow of deference with his head, allowing Jacques to part the crowd and make an exit for the two of them. Truthfully, Ironwood didn't mind Jacques' company all that much, if only because the CEO of the Schnee Dust Company was one of the few men who could discuss affairs of true importance on his level. Jacques didn't tend to get bogged down in the minutia of gossip, nor was he so needy as to beg a petty favor from the General…

"So, James, how is my darling Winter adjusting to Atlas Academy?" With _one_ noteworthy exception. "Or perhaps I should ask…" he tugged at his moustache to mask a smile, "how is Atlas Academy adjusting _her_?"

A silence followed, long enough to slip into discomforting, as Ironwood considered the question. Or, perhaps more honestly, considered its context. He was under no delusions that Jacques Schnee was a _nice_ man. Ironwood thought that Jacques was pleasant enough company, when he deigned to be amicable, and not a tyrannical despot or a genocidal slaver like the White Fang's propagandists made him out as. But one did not maintain a near-total monopoly on Remnant's most valuable commodity by being _nice_. Ironwood knew that much the same could be said about himself, and was thus slower to judge than many of his colleagues, but still…

…there was something wholly _disquieting_ about that little smile.

"Winter is settling in well," Ironwood finally began, keeping his voice calmly neutral. "I'd have to confirm, but I believe she's at the top of almost every class she's in." ( _He did not need to check)_.

Ironwood stopped speaking, taking another sip of whiskey, and eyeing the distorted visage of Jacques Schnee through the glass. He'd told Jacques exactly what he would have said to any other parent, which should’ve left them positively aglow. Would Jacques leave it at that? Let his probing question slide? _Could_ Jacques leave it at that?

"You made her a Team Leader," Jacques stated, his tone a jagged icicle.

"I can scarcely say I had a choice," replied Ironwood. "If you reviewed her performance during the Initiation trials, you'd have seen that-"

"-You're the Headmaster, _dammit_ , James! Make up whatever excuse you like." Ironwood was distantly thankful that Jacques had had the forethought to pull them out of earshot for this conversation. Jacques wasn’t usually so thoughtful once properly enraged.

Ironwood's fingers curled around the glass. "I'm afraid it's a little late for that now," he replied, flatly.

Jacques scoffed at that. "Don't hide behind institutional norms, James. You're the commanding officer of that Academy, and you can _demote her_."

"I can," Ironwood agreed, taking a deep breath. "But I won't. She's a fine team leader." 

Winter herself would have disagreed with that assessment, but then she was still used to the fairy tale stories of ‘leadership’ of the type Beacon propagated, whereas Ironwood was judging her as an officer in an army. Winter was a ‘fine’ team leader in that she was competent enough, and that none of her subordinates would have any real cause to complain (or mutiny). She drilled them, communicated with them, helped them to train and to study. For Atlas Academy, that was enough.

"The point was not to make Winter into a _fine team leader_ ," Jacques spat back, his words a mocking sneer. "The _point_ was to teach her some self-control and respect for authority. Hurry her through this adolescent _temper tantrum_ she's been throwing all these years. To make her a proper _subordinate_ like every other soldier in your toy army!"

"That is not the way my Academy is run, _Jacques_ ," stated Ironwood, putting some real steel in his tone. "I will do my best to instill in Winter a degree of self-discipline, good judgment, and a sense of duty. That is what I do with all my students. After many years of doing this job, I have learned that how they choose to apply those lessons is ultimately beyond my control." He paused, letting the world darken just a little. "Or yours."

Jacques looked at James as if the General had just pissed on his shoes. "Fine, James, tell yourself your noble little fairy tail. And let me know when you remember who your _allies_ in this world are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I know nothing about how hair works. Send help.
> 
> More seriously, Ironwood's relationship with Jacques is a pain to write. Ironwood is probably one of the more grounded characters in _RWBY_ , even if his decisions ultimately prove problematic, or outright detrimental. He (probably) wouldn't be willing to gloss over the problematic behavior of the Schnee Dust Company, at least to himself, but I don't think he has the Belladonnas' crusading sense of justice, either. He's neither outright hostile nor completely amicable to Jacques. Someone smarter than me could draw parallels to his relationship (presumably of necessity) to Qrow.


	5. The Wonderful Trinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _War is, therefore … a wonderful trinity, composed of the original violence of its elements, hatred and animosity, which may be looked upon as blind instinct; of the play of probabilities and chance, which make it a free activity of the soul; and of the subordinate nature of a political instrument, by which it belongs purely to the reason._

"Winter, dearest snowflake, I don't mean to alarm you," said Chalk, murmuring conspiratorially over a flute of champagne, “but your father is approaching at a rather determined pace and I don't believe I can outrun him in these shoes."

"Chalk, love, give me your glass," stated Winter, in a tone as devoid of warmth as her family’s Dust mines. Chalk raised a bemused eyebrow and allowed Winter to pluck her glass from her fingers by its stem, then watched with an expression between _curiosity_ and _bewilderment_ as Winter downed it in a swallow.

"…Winter, my beautiful daughter, I have _missed_ you."

Winter and Chalk exchanged Significant Glances. Chalk plucked the now-empty flute from Winter's fingers with an encouraging smile.

"Greetings, Father," said Winter, turning about slowly to face him. She was unsurprised to see him wearing the same double-breasted white suit he always wore to formal occasions. It was his privilege as a wealthy man to never have to worry about the shifting styles of fashion. Winter curled her fingers around her dress, before dropping into a curtsey so low her head was even with his waist. There was nothing _familial_ in the obsequious motion, which would be clear to anyone within eyeshot.

"Please, Winter," _scoffed_ Jacques, and as Winter straightened upright he pulled her into something approximating an embrace. Genuine shock fluttered through Winter's chest, subsiding only slightly when he pulled back to a respectable distance.

"Father, this is Xocolātl Adel, Brennan Adel's eldest daughter. She's a fellow Team Leader at Atlas Academy. We've become…" Winter's tongue seemed to make a dive for her throat, but Chalk just looked at her expectantly. "… _Friends_."

Chalk grinned a triumphant grin at having _finally_ extracted that confession from Winter. And all it had taken was extreme duress. "Mister Schnee," greeted Chalk. She offered a courtly curtsey of her own, though with enough flair that there was nothing submissive about the gesture "It's an honor to finally meet you. Winter has told me _so much_ about you."

"I'm sure she has," Jacques replied, his voice adopting a humorless tone. A tone that made it clear that he had no doubt that Winter's words had not been particularly warm ones. Chalk suppressed a wince, berating herself for misjudging his sense of humor. "Come, Winter, there are so many _family issues_ to catch up on."

The emphasis on his words seemed to be directed not at Winter, but for Chalk's benefit. He was glaring at her like she was someone _audacious_ enough to eavesdrop on a private family gathering. (Which, Winter wordlessly admitted, Chalk most certainly was.)

"I'll leave you two to rendezvous," said Chalk, offering an even shorter curtsey to conclude the conversation. Jacques turned his back and began strolling away, gesturing for Winter to follow with a snap of his fingers. Winter glared at the woman who’d deserted her and mouthed a word that Chalk chose to believe was ' _pitch_ '.

"How have you been, father?" asked Winter, lengthening her stride slightly to catch up with him.

"Our profit margin is shrinking," Jacques answered, cutting straight to the issue that truly mattered to him. "White Fang attacks have more than doubled in the past six months. Insurance costs for shipments and facility security has skyrocketed, and on top of everything those terrorists have shut down our mine in Suikazura."

"I heard that was a labor strike," Winter replied, cautiously.

Jacques shot her a disappointed look. "Don't be a child, Winter. These are Faunus we're talking about." And this was not a crowd where he needed to worry about his words being overheard.

"One of my teammates is Faunus," Winter said, quietly but unashamedly. Sev, a third-generation Menagerian with a head of clipped quills instead of hair (and an attitude to match). It had been _quite_ the journey getting to the point of amicability…

…But once they'd arrived at it, though, Winter could never see the world through her father's eyes as she once had. She had no delusions that she was a poster-child for progressiveness, not when many of her fellow students (and one roommate) were already actively engaged in Faunus rights campaigns. Beliefs internalized over a lifetime of indoctrination did not evaporate in mere months.

Perhaps more than sympathy for Faunus, what Winter felt was _scorn_ for the sentiments of her father and his coterie, their unthinking demonization and Othering. It was just so _childish_ , Winter had had no choice but to conclude, wasteful and destructive. A fear of _difference_ that Jacques Schnee had somehow never quite grown out of, calcifying into xenophobia with adulthood. A worldview he reinforced with a healthy diet of sensationalist tabloids and pseudoscientific studies.

Jacques looked like he'd swallowed something rotten. "Well then, Winter, that should make coming home that much easier."

Winter almost tripped over her feet. "Excuse me?"

"Come home," repeated Jacques, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world ."You were right, sending you to Atlas Academy was a mistake. James runs it like a dictatorship, doesn't he, forcing his beliefs on his students. _Students_ , bah. All he sees are more toy soldiers for him to play his war games with, of course."

Winter's whole body felt unnerved. There were so many things _wrong_ with what her father was saying it was setting off alarms from her epidermis to her gastrointestinal tract, her whole body perturbed and disturbed. "You want me… to _leave_ the Academy?"

"Yes. I think I've let James do _quite_ enough damage to my firstborn daughter. Perhaps in a year or two you can try another academy. Beacon, maybe. Something a little less… _martial_." Jacques continued making his way through the ballroom, shooing off anyone who tried to pull him away from his daughter.

"I didn't realize that bothered you so, father," Winter replied. Jacques said nothing, well aware that his polite lies were being called out by a daughter who knew him oh-too-well.

"It's not about me," Jacques lied, making a summoning gesture with his hand. "Your little sister misses you something _awful_."

The barb in that last adverb was lost on Winter as a portly man in a tux stepped aside to reveal… " _Weiss_."

Winter's stomached clenched. It had only been a few months since she'd last seen Weiss, truthfully, but Winter felt like she'd missed so much. Gone was the girl who'd barely hit puberty, petrified by the changes happening to her body and mind. Standing before Winter was a young lady of high society, not even a _débutante_ , unfamiliar with the intricacies of a ballroom. Weiss wore a short white dress that glistened softly in the light, snowy hair falling over bare shoulders. For just a moment, she was smiling from ear to ear.

Weiss composed herself in a heartbeat, offering her sister a flawless curtsy, which Winter reciprocated a tad belatedly. "How have you been?" asked Winter, aware of the dozen ears and eyes turned to their conversation. Their father's undoubtedly included.

"Very well, thank you for asking," answered Weiss, with the socially _apropos_ measure of formality in her tone. "How are you enjoying Atlas Academy?"

Winter thought back to all those eyes and ears. At what they _didn't_ want to hear. "…Very much, Weiss. I'm actually thinking I might join the Service after graduation, as a commissioned Huntress. Or even a Specialist."

Weiss blinked, genuinely surprised by the answer. "But… I…" Weiss began fidgeting with her hands. "Father said you would be returning home in a few weeks."

Winter's exhale came out jagged. "He told you that?"

Her younger sister nodded readily. "Yes. He's talked to me about how you hate it there. I am _so_ sorry to hear that, Winter." There was genuine pain in Weiss' voice, which seemed to claw at Winter's chest.

Winter's fingernails dug deep into the flesh of her palm. "It's not that bad, Weiss," Winter replied, though she knew her words would sound hollow, a _post hoc_ rationalization to her sister's ear. Winter leaned forward. Even wearing stiletto heels Weiss was nowhere near her sister's height, and the trajectory of her growth suggested she'd never reach it.

" _How is mother_?" Winter's voice dropped to a low murmur, impossible to hear over the conversations and footsteps and music.

Weiss squeezed her eyelids shut, steeling herself for something she did not want to say. "She's getting worse." Winter said nothing, but stared into her sister's eyes once they opened. "She's drinking. More than before, I mean."

"Is she causing trouble?"

Weiss shook her head. "No. It's more like…" Weiss cast a guilty glance over her shoulder "…she's not there anymore. She's shutting herself up, shutting us _out_. I can't… I can't…" Weiss rubbed her eyes, then straightened upright. She was still a Schnee, after all, and Schnees were too damn prideful to tear up in public.

"I understand," said Winter. It was a bit of a lie, but a lie was the best she could give Weiss right now.

"So now that the two of you are _all caught up_ …" Jacques' voice was loud and abrasive to Winter's ear, his tone making it clear that he knew exactly what his daughters had discussed. "I trust you'll submit the paperwork to withdraw tomorrow morning?"

Her father looked at her with determination in his eyes. Weiss' were pleading. Between them, it was as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders, and she was struggling just to stand upright…

"…Actually, Father, I think I'd like to continue my studies at the Academy."

Somewhere behind her, someone dropped a bottle of something very expensive. She chose to believe it was a coincidence.

" _Winter_ …" There was nothing paternal about Jacques' tone. His daughter's back straightened. "Winter… I'm not sure if the money will be there for tuition at Atlas Academy."

Winter's jaw actually dropped at the audacity of her father's claim. She'd seen the costs simply of keeping his mansions free from _literal_ dust. The cost of four years at Atlas wouldn’t cover a season's topiary. Her brain properly parsed the sentence a few moments later - he hadn't said that they _could not afford_ tuition. Simply that the money wouldn't be available for such an expenditure.

"I would like to attend regardless. My allowance would cover most of the expenses."

Winter was pretty sure her father actually _growled_ at that. "Then I will have to _reduce_ that allowance until you find something more prudent to spend it on." He paused, his eye twitching as if he was sizing her up for a fight. "How about I take you shopping this weekend? We can buy you, oh, some new shoes. _Daddy's treat_." His words caused Winter to cool so rapidly it was quite possible her blood was crystallizing.

"It's getting late, Father, and I'm afraid I have an early day tomorrow." If he could lie to her face, she could return the favor. “And Weiss,” something _guilty_ shot through her veins as she spoke her sister’s name ”...I promise I’ll message your Scroll first thing in the morning.” Winter had a _very_ hard time believe that that was the best she was capable of doing in this situation, but her mind denied her anything better. She squashed the feeling of shame before it could fester. At least for the moment. “Now, if you'll excuse me, father." She curtsied once again, low and genuflecting, but there was no mistaking the gesture for submission.

Winter spun on her heel and stormed off before her father could utter another word. Chalk caught up with her not ten paces into her march, a glass of bubbly in either hand.

Jacques' eyes followed his eldest daughter until the crowd enveloped her entirely. He stood still for several long moments, his expression devoid of emotion, before he took Weiss' hand in his.

"We're going home, Weiss," he stated, in a tone that left no allowance for defiance.

"And Winter-"

"She's coming home too, Weiss."

_She just doesn't know it yet._

* * *

CODA

"You're supposed to hold my hair," Chalk chided, her voice echoing from the bowels of a toilet bowl. "It's what friends do for friends…in the movies…."

Winter, seated on the lip of a porcelain bathtub, made a gesture of helplessness. "Your hair doesn't reach your shoulders."

Chalk dry-heaved again, then made an indistinctly pitiful sound. Winter grumbled something similarly inarticulate in reply, then leaned forward anyways. There wasn't really a lot she could do with Chalk's asymmetric bob, but Winter ran her fingers through chocolate-colored hair regardless.

" _Mmmh_ ," hummed Chalk, the noise rumbling in the ceramic echo chamber. "Feels nice."

Winter rolled her eyes. "This makes us even for you buying the airship ticket back."

"Love you, Winter," Chalk managed to get out, before her whole body convulsed again.

Despite ages of words of poets and sages, Chalk had long learned that love was a simple thing. Joy for another's happiness; sorrow at their pain.

"Love you, too, Chalk," Winter replied with a weary sigh.

It had eluded Jacques Schnee all the same.


	6. Wendepunkt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _The natural goal of all campaign plans therefore is the_ _wendepunkt_ [lit.: turning point] _at which the attack becomes defense._

"Oh, Miss Schnee."

"Headmaster. Sir."

Winter Schnee and James Ironwood suddenly found themselves standing at opposite sides of a threshold, an open door between them. The door happened to be that to the registrar's office, which Ironwood had just dropped in on to clear a minor bureaucratic logjam.

"Is there a problem, Miss Schnee?"

Ironwood was too observant a man to miss the way Winter clutched a bundle of paperwork _slightly_ closer to her chest in response to his question.

"Just a, um…" she fumbled for words in a most atypical manner "… _family matters_ , sir."

"I see." He didn't really, but that was the kind of thing sagely old Headmasters were expected to say to nervous young students. Ironwood made a show of peering at the stack of documents Winter was still grasping for dear life. "Official paperwork, I take it? Shall I put in a good word for my top student and have everything cleared up?"

" _Sir_ , it would be inappropriate for you to give me special…" Winter's voice trailed off when she realized she'd missed the joke.

"Returning home?"

His voice was low and somber, but not sorrowful. Maybe he was already coming to terms with losing her.

Winter had put on a show of rebelliousness, if all the private messages he was being inundated with were to be believed, but Jacques Schnee was by no definition a _gracious loser_. Nor was he at all obliged to take Winter's defiance lying down. As cathartic as it must have been for Winter to turn her back on her father, Ironwood knew she'd soon be fighting a rearguard action, against a man with an army at his disposal and a temperament that was anything but forgiving. Ironwood had survived too many battles to let _wishful thinking_ cloud his vision.

"Not quite, sir." Winter hesitate for a long, _long_ moment, before tilting the stack of paperwork forward so the Headmaster could see, Ironwood taking it in with a sweep of the eye.

Even upside-down, it didn't take long for Ironwood to make out _APPLICATION FOR STUDENT FINANCIAL RELIEF_.

"I see." He wasn't lying this time.

Winter swallowed. "I know it's a bit of an unusual situation, sir. I don't think I qualify for the 17-B exemption because my parents' income is greater than…" She trailed off for the second time in two minutes. Ironwood's cheek twitched slightly upwards.

He knew the problem Winter was going to encounter. Financial relief was determined on the basis of the income of the student's parents, assuming the student was below the age of the majority, which Winter, for a few more months, still was. If Jacques Schnee didn't know every loophole in the tax code he'd have been in the absolute highest bracket in Atlas. The Schnees were quite literally the _last_ family in Remnant to qualify by the conventional rules. Because the conventional rules, drafted years ago by unimaginative bureaucrats, didn't take into account a scenario where a student's parents _refused_ to pay.

Ironwood would've preferred his Academy to be free, as were Beacon and Shade, but the downside to technically being part of the Atlas Royal Army was that his Academy was financed by taxpayers. And Atlas was not renowned for having particularly generous social service programs. Taxpayers would pay for the education of soldiers, but not Huntsmen, pollsters and politicians had long confirmed. Not when Huntsmen had no binding obligation to serve those citizens in turn, when they were in fact free to live lives of (profitable) adventure in more hospital corners of Remnant. And he had no doubt that Winter would qualify for any number of scholarships (certainly when he decided a solid _half_ of them), but those were all done on a calendar year basis, and Winter's next tuition payment would be due in a little over four weeks.

"Are you aware that Atlas Academy waives all student fees if a student agrees to enlist in the Army for four years after graduation?" Ironwood knew that that would either be his greatest moment of tactical genius or the kind of idiocy that would haunt him in the quiet hours before sunrise.

He had no doubt that Winter was aware of that fact. For someone of her intelligence it was all-but-impossible _not_ to. He was thus trying to elicit not what Winter Schnee _knew_ but what she _thought_.

Her teeth sunk into her lip. 

"I… had heard of that, sir," she began, slowly and haltingly, but every word was well-enunciated. "But I don't know… I don't know if I know all the details." From a certain (if rather epistemological) point of view, that was technically true.

"I've said that my office door is always open," Ironwood began, choosing each word carefully. That was also a technical truth, though rare was the student who felt confident enough to take him up on it. "Perhaps you'd like it if we discussed it over coffee, or tea?"

"Coffee, sir," Winter answered unthinkingly. Her head snapped upright when she realized what she'd agreed to.

"Coffee it is, Schnee. Is tomorrow at eleven-hundred convenient for you? My usual office hours."

That rarest of smiles, small and true, crossed Winter's face. "It's perfect, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I _did_ warn you that chapter length was all over the place. This was actually originally a coda to the previous chapter, but it kind of needed a stand-alone moment, I felt.


	7. Synthesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There arose, therefore, an endeavour to establish maxims, rules, and even systems for the conduct of War. By this the attainment of a positive object was proposed, without taking into view the endless difficulties which the conduct of War presents in that respect. The conduct of War, as we have shown, has no definite limits in any direction, while every system has the circumscribing nature of a synthesis, from which results an irreconcileable opposition between such a theory and practice._

_Several years later..._

A dull _humming_ filled the airship as it soared across Atlas, not as insulated as a commercial jet would be against the reverberations of its powerful Dust-core engines. Nor was it anywhere as smooth a ride as a civilian airship, for Ironwood’s corvette had been designed with speed and maneuverability in mind. A little shaking wasn’t worth fretting over.

Speaking of... 

“ _Schnee_ ,” Ironwood called out, projecting his voice to be heard in the cabin. Winter, seated on the opposite side of the airship’s small hangar from him, snapped her head upright in an instant. “You’re fidgeting.”

Winter’s angry exhale was lost to the vibrating hull, but she sunk her nails into her skin, a flicker of irritation crossing her face as she did. Winter paced when she was stressed and duelled when she was offended. _Fidgeting_ was somewhat out of character for her. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to distract you.”

Ironwood waved away her apology, feeling almost silly himself for having mentioned it. “Don’t worry,” he said, trying to layer his words with reassurance. Ironwood paused for a long moment, watching the woman seated opposite him. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Schnee?”

Winter seemed to steel slightly at the question. “I should be asking you that, sir. I know that this is an imposition on you, sir, personally and professionally.”

“Not that I am conceding the first, but that second point is definitely untrue, Schnee,” Ironwood replied, his voice almost chiding, if in a professorial kind of way. “You’re here because you’re my _aide-de-camp_. Whatever anyone else might say, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t exceptionally good at what you do.”

Winter had no response to that, but she nodded gently, looking like she was trying to kindle a fire in her chest with his words as flint and steel.

The airship bobbed as it began its descent, dropping fast to make a harder target for any ne’er-do-wells hoping to take a shot at them from the ground. Nobody was seriously expecting anyone to try to shoot them down in mainland Atlas, but the change in leadership in the White Fang had everyone rattled, and there was an old saying about caution being preferable to rash bravery.

“It’s a beautiful sunset,” noted the General, glancing out the small porthole of a window he was afforded. And it most certainly was, Winter had to concede, strolling over to his side of the cabin to take it in, the mountains that served as the capital’s backdrop, bathed in orange and amber. She had no complaints about the landscape, not really, except for the bit of real estate that happened to be _rapidly_ becoming the foreground.

“There’s no place like home,” Winter muttered under her breath, so low that the General barely caught it. There was no missing the venom in her voice, though.

Ironwood hadn’t the faintest clue how to respond to that, so the rest of their descent was passed in silence.

Schnee Manor had two helipads, but the General’s airship was too large to be accommodated by either, so they had to settle for the lawn. Ironwood felt a distant twinge of guilt at the amount of landscaping that would no doubt be required to repair the mess of their dramatic entrance. But you didn’t hold two seats on the Council without getting _some_ allowances for style.

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Jacques hadn’t laid out the friendliest of welcome mats after their latest spat. Jacques might never let his personal quarrels with Ironwood impede the conduct of profitable business, but they certainly hadn't made the CEO any more pleasant to be around.

Even still, Ironwood was a little surprised when the welcome party greeting him at the base of the ramp consisted of two SDC security personnel and the Schnee’s in-house counsel.

“ _Baum_ ,” greeted Ironwood, as he stepped out of the corvette, drawing up the lawyer’s name from the dredges of his memory. Given the overlap of Atlas’ strategic assets and the Schnees’ personal property, they had interfaced on more than one occasion. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Baum waved off the General’s facade of friendliness, for which James was grateful. It’d have been something of a challenge to maintain for very long. “General Ironwood,” welcomed Baum, with the clipped precision of a man used to quoting clauses. “You and your men are always welcome at Mr. Schnee’s private residence.” He thrust a packet of brightly-colored documents in Ironwood’s direction. “But your _assistant_ is most certainly not.”

Baum’s eyes met Winter’s, the young woman having taken her time descending the ramp, moving with unusual hesitancy, as if traversing a minefield. Her expression was utterly blank as she stared into his eyes, her hands clasped behind her back in a soldier's posture. The hem of her long, snow-white coat fluttered gently in wind.

“Operative Schnee is not my _assistant_ , Baum,” corrected Ironwood, as he leafed through the documents. That was technically untrue, though Baum was no doubt using the word as a stand-in for ‘secretary’, which Winter most certainly was _not_.

“That’s irrelevant,” shot back Baum, irritation creeping into his voice. He’d never excelled at suppressing his own annoyance. As a lawyer it gave him the advantage of aggression. As a person it tended not to endear him much to others. “Winter is legally barred from this property, pursuant to court order.”

Winter’s steps were slow and deliberate, coming close enough to the General that she could see the documents in his hands. “What are they, sir?”

“It’s a restraining order, Winter,” said Ironwood, unable to keep the duress from his voice, her surname vanishing in the moment.

To his own surprise there was no horror on Winter’s face, no shock or surprise or even all-too-available anger. All that passed was a glimmer of pain, a twitch of her cheeks like she’d been slapped, and a distant sorrow in her eyes.

Eyes that closed a moment later. “It says I’ve been emotionally abusive towards Weiss, doesn’t it? That I inflicted psychological distress on her in our Scroll messages.”

“How did you know?” asked James, before he could think of something more sensible to say.

Winter’s eyes opened slowly. “It’s… been a long time coming. Sir.”

“We’ll get it repealed,” Ironwood promised, a mixture of shame and embarrassment filling him. “I knew Jacques was throwing a temper tantrum but I never thought he’d go so far as to…”

His sentence trailed off as he met Winter’s eyes. They both knew that this was _exactly_ something Jacques Schnee would do. Neither James nor Jacques could fully walk away from their relationship, not when the SDC and the military of Atlas maintained such symbiosis. Having Winter banished from her home and family was _petty_ , but Jacques clearly saw no reason why a moment's vindictiveness should affect his relationship with Ironwood. 

“Well then, Winter, if you would return to the General’s airship until he is ready to depart, seeing as the issue is settled-”

“It’s not,” stated Winter, interjecting into a sentence Baum clearly hadn’t been expecting to be interrupted.

“Winter?” Ironwood said, genuinely unsure of where she was going.

“Atlas Code of Military Law, section 21(a)(5), and the case of _Coal v. Kingdom of Atlas_. Atlas military personnel acting in an official capacity are exempt from civilian court orders unless the order has been affirmed by a military justice official.” She stared into Baum’s eyes. “And my father doesn’t golf with any Army judges.”

For a brief moment Baum looked like he was going to literally _explode_ at Winter’s exploitation of arcane case law. He kept his temper, but only just barely.

“Winter’s not in uniform,” Baum pointed out, “as _fashionable_ as that white coat of hers is. I seem to recall something about soldiers needing to be properly uniformed for their, ah, _extralegal_ privileges to apply.”

His choice of words, to Winter’s ear, was more than telling: ' _I seem to recall_ '. Baum was not an omnidisciplinary lawyer, he specialized in matters of contract and administrative law, not military justice. Winter was halfway to calling him out on his desperate gambit when the General spoke. “In many cases you would be correct,” Ironwood offered, “but as an officer in the Atlesian Special Operatives unit, Winter is entitled to wear whatever attire she deems suitable, even when on-duty.”

“I’ve chosen an outfit that reflects two important aspects of my life,” stated Winter, unsolicited, knowing Baum would relay every word to her Father. “Aristocracy and martiality. Thesis and antithesis, if you would. It took me more time than I cared for to effect a _synthesis_ of those lives.”

Baum and Ironwood stood still for several seconds, off-footed by Winter’s exposition, both knowing that she was speaking more to Jacques, or even herself, than either of them. But it was Ironwood who collected his thoughts first. “If you have a complaint, I’d refer you to Karl de Klausewitz, ombudsman for civil-military relations. I’ve heard he’s quite good.”

“Expect to hear from our lawyers imminently, _James_ ,” Baum practically spat, speaking with an unearned familiarity.

Only Winter’s cool temper allowed Ironwood to keep his own. “I understand. But please remind Jacques that I do not consider it appropriate for him to meddle in my personnel decisions. Nor will this be viewed as a gesture of friendship.”

Baum managed to bite back an angry retort, spinning on his heel and storming up the lawn back towards the manor. Had Baum not been such an unpleasant human being, Ironwood might even have felt sorry for him. Jacques Schnee, as had just been demonstrated, was not known to take setbacks _magnanimously._

Ironwood toed the grass with a polished shoe, giving Baum a minute or two to get ahead of them. And to give them both time to collect themselves. “Thesis, antithesis, synthesis, Winter? Bit late to be trying for extra credit.”

Winter offered him a weak smile. “Believe it or not, sir, I actually paid attention through that ‘philosophical origins of competing theories of warfare’ symposium you delivered. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“That’s usually the case,” the General agreed, with a hint of self-deprecating humor. "Well, at least _you_ didn't get caught napping." He was hoping that got a reaction out of her, indignation or mirth, he could've worked with either …

Winter’s expression didn't lift much, though. “I’m sorry it came to that, sir,” said the Operative, managing to keep her voice from wavering. “Using military law to circumvent my father’s will. _That_ was the favor I needed.”

Ironwood just shook his head, rubbing his face with a leather-gloved hand. “It’s not a favor, Winter, you’re here to do a job.” A part of her job she could have found a thousand excuses to skip out on, of course, but neither needed to say that. “I’ll make sure Jacques...Schnee… has that order rescinded. Once his temper cools he’ll remember that you’re more valuable working _with_ him than _against_ him.” He offered her a pat on the shoulder, the intimacy of the gesture producing a small startle from the woman. “Don’t worry about it, Winter.”

“Thank you. Sir.” Winter exhaled through her nostrils, and Ironwood let his hand fall from her shoulder. “Not to burden you further, but would you please call me _Operative_ or just _Schnee_ while we’re here. I need to be…” she fumbled for words “...I need to be that woman right now. The one who attended Atlas Academy. Not my father’s girl.”

“Of course. Lead the way, Operative Schnee.”

* * *

Winter Schnee did not, in fact, lead the way, if only because Baum intercepted them at the main foyer and insisted on escorting the two of them all the way to the door of her father’s office. He no doubt would have liked to follow Ironwood inside, but Winter knew her father had no particular fondness for Baum, and the lawyer was usually brought in only _after_ the important conversations had happened.

The three came to a halt outside the door, all equally uncertain as to how best to proceed.

“Will you be requiring my assistance in the study, sir?” The words came out more awkwardly than Winter had intended, trying to layer in meaning within earshot of a lawyer who’d known her since infancy. She didn’t think she’d succeeded.

Ironwood looked her over with that cool eye of a tactician officer. “No, Operative Schnee. Actually,” he paused, casting a glance at Baum, “I’d like you to inspect the premises.”

“Sir?” Winter was the only one who spoke, but she and Baum looked equally askance.

“For bombs, Operative,” Ironwood clarified. “Both myself and Mister Schnee are prime targets for Faunus terrorists, and we should make use of your skillset to mitigate any risk. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Baum?”

The lawyer squirmed a little. “Mister Schnee would never consent to what is _clearly_ an excuse to search his private residence. Without even the pretense of a warrant-”

The General held his hand up. “And if I was a police officer, sir, you would have grounds for complaint. Operative Schnee and myself are here in our official capacities as soldiers of the Kingdom’s Army. As my bodyguard previously established,” Winter raised an eyebrow at Ironwood’s choice of nouns, “we are not here as private citizens.”

“If it soothes your nerves, Baum, nothing I _stumble across_ would be admissible in a court of law. As you said, I have no warrant.” Winter felt something _unpleasant_ settling in her stomach, but she suppressed the sensation. While her actions would have had any privacy rights advocate blue in the face, the fact was that Atlas gave its military _far_ more legal leeway than any of the other Kingdoms. Citizens were expected to defer to the wills of soldiers, not the other way around. Winter had no illusions that it was a particularly _just_ way of running a society, but it was one her father had supported all his life, due in no small part to the SDC’s more-than-cozy relationship with the Army. There was something vaguely cathartic about using the Kingdom’s own laws against him. A horrible precedent, to be sure, but such were not the thoughts of soldiers on a warpath.

“I’ll check back with you soon, sir,” promised Winter. And with a nod she was off.

* * *

The facade lasted all of five minutes.

Winter had indeed made a show of wandering about what had once been _her_ Manor, checking ventilation traps and plumbing and all the nooks and crannies a bomb might be hidden. It was a theater of the absurd, to be sure, given that the Manor employed a security force comparable in size to certain Army units. Baum trailed dutifully behind her the whole time, seemingly weary of getting too close to her, as if she might lash out and bite him if he startled her. Winter didn’t particularly mind discomforting the man if it bought her a bit more personal space.

It made her little escape possible, after all.

One moment, she was checking under a decorative table, as if the White Fang could’ve strapped a Dust bomb to the underside of it when nobody was looking. Then she rounded a corner, and by the time Baum followed her into the next room, the Operative had vanished…

“...Thank you, Klein,” murmured Winter, as she squeezed past the family butler. There were so many hidden passageways in the Manor she’d almost forgotten where they all snaked and exited, but Klein had managed to pluck her amidst her wanderings all the same.

“Not at all, Miss Schnee,” Klein replied, dusting a few cobwebs from his vest. “Though I’ve heard it’s _Operative_ Schnee now, is it not?”

“ _Winter_ has always been fine,” the Operative answered, planting one foot carefully in front of the other. She knew the request was an exercise in futility, but she hadn’t had the chance to make it in quite some time.

“Of course, my lady,” answered Klein, confirming her suspicions. “I must say your sister hasn’t quite been herself since your… _disownment_.” He gestured with his fingers, directing Winter to an even-narrower passageway. “She’s shut herself up in her room whenever there aren’t demands on her time.”

“Is that where she is now, then?” asked Winter, trying to position herself within the Manor. Even for her it wasn’t an easy task - the maze of hidden passageways had been designed to be intentionally winding and circuitous.

“I would believe so, Miss Schnee. Second nook on your left.”

Winter found the little alcove Klein had indicated, groping clumsily about for the small lever which would swing the wall panel open. Winter blinked rapidly as her eyes adjust to the bright lights of the hallway, realizing all-too-belatedly that she was face-to-face with one of countless maids tasked with both keeping the Manor tidy and providing eye candy for her father. The young woman looked positively _aghast_ at Winter’s sudden appearance - she might not even have known the secret passageways existed - but Winter greeted her with nothing more than a curt nod, taking pains to keep her hand from coming to a reflexive rest on her sword’s hilt.

Klein followed Winter out of the passage and began speaking to the young maid in hushed tones. Given her father’s rather fearsome demands of loyalty from his staff Winter couldn’t honestly blame the woman if she went scurrying off to security. She just hoped Klein could buy her a few minutes, if nothing else.

Setting aside thoughts of compromise, Winter made her way to the door before her, a door she had opened far too rarely in her childhood. She drew to a halt, hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then rasped her knuckles against the thick wooden paneling.

It was a long, _long_ wait for the sound of footsteps from the other side.

And then the door was opened all-too-suddenly. “ _Winter_ ,” Weiss breathed, as if she was an apparition from a fairy tale. “You came back…”

There was some wrenching about those words, in a way Winter had not in the least prepared for. “I was able to drop in while the General has business with father,” Winter explained, trying to convey the circumstances of her return without bringing her sister crashing down. Judging by Weiss’ bodily reaction, it was only a partial success.

The silver lining was that the darkening of Weiss’ expression was reserved for someone other than Winter herself. “That _restraining order_ is a travesty of the law, Winter,” Weiss _growled_ , though she still spoke with a precision that belied her youth. Like Winter, Weiss seemed to be going through adolescence wishing everyone would treat her like the adult she acted like.

“It’s not your fault, Weiss,” Winter reassured her, stepping across the threshold as she did. The door swung shut behind her, sealing them in a bedroom that to Winter had always been too spacious and too sparse for a child like Weiss.

Weiss said nothing, just seated herself on the edge of her four-poster bed. Winter knew that Weiss was almost helpless in a situation like this. As in so many other things, the Kingdom of Atlas was not renowned for the progressiveness of its children’s rights laws. Legally speaking, Weiss was scarcely more than her father’s chattel. She had no right to dispute his claims that Winter had emotionally tormented her.

“I heard your latest performance, Weiss,” said Winter. “It was… more than adequate.” Later that night she’d kick herself for the damnation of faint praise, but the rare compliment was enough to lift Weiss’ mood, however little.

“Thank you, Winter,” Weiss answered, with almost rote formality. “You wouldn’t _believe_ how many hours I spent rehearsing it.” Her smile, plastered reflexively onto her face, faltered a little. “So you really can’t stay?”

Winter let out a deep, weary sigh, and seated herself next to Weiss on the bed. She should have known better than to try to dance around the issue with small-talk. She’d come here for a _reason_ , after all, as much as she didn’t want to get around to it.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Weiss,” Winter began, choosing her words as carefully as her overtaxed mind could. “You might not like it, but you deserve to hear things without someone sugarcoating it for you.”

Winter told herself she was treating Weiss like an adult, giving her little sister the respect she expected. Some part of Winter’s brain told her that she was just doing it because Weiss was marginally less likely to hate her by the end of it this way. So no points for selflessness.

“I could come back. I could stay here, patch things up with Father, make amends, take a position with the Company. It’s probably not too late for that.” Winter stared at her boots, not daring to see her sister’s face. “But I’m not going to.”

To her credit, Weiss didn’t scream or shout or pout, didn’t cry like a petulant child or whine like a spoiled tween. She was just silent, exhaling those stuttered snorts of someone told bad news they’d known was a long time coming. “Can you tell me why, Winter? Do you hate it here _that_ much?”

Winter shook her head. “No, Weiss, not at all.” She managed to face her sister again, one hand gently brushing Weiss’ cheek, and a few strands of snow-white hair in the process. “It’s not that. It’s just…” she fumbled for words. “I am _very_ good at what I do.”

Weiss raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think anyone’s ever accused you of _modesty_ , Winter.”

Winter smiled and blushed in equal measure, at the joke that showed Weiss wasn’t _devastated beyond words_. “No…. they haven’t.” She paused. “General Ironwood is fast-tracking my application for Specialist training. Should I qualify, I’ll be the youngest Specialist in over twenty years.”

Weiss’ expression made it clear that she wasn’t _particularly_ impressed by the boast, but she nodded along all the same. “And if I’m certified, Weiss, I have a chance to help a great many people. Much like a Huntress would.” _That_ got a bit more of a reaction out of Weiss - she’d always been the bigger sucker for those classical tales of heroism than Winter had been growing up.

“So that is it, then, Winter?” Weiss asked, as if trying to get a story straight. “You think this is what you’ll be best at?”

“Yes,” answered Winter. “I'll be a better fighter than Company executive, at any rate.” And then her fingers dug into the palm of her hand. “But if I’m being honest with myself” - _and why is that_ so _damn hard to do_ “-it’s what I want.” Weiss seemed to blink at the words. After a moment, Winter did, too, but she barreled on regardless. “I _want_ to be a Specialist. I like the work. I like the challenge. I even like the lifestyle. I hope that it’s the best use of my time on Remnant. But it’s a little selfish, too.”

Weiss rubbed her arms, staring downcast at the floorboards. “I think I understand,” she finally got out, her throat sounding tight. “I hope it makes you happy, Winter. You deserve that much.”

“As do you, my dearest sister,” replied Winter, hopping off the bed so she could face Weiss head-on, planting a hand on either shoulder. “You must believe that, whatever father might want for you.”

Weiss offered a weak smile. “Well, when I need someone to talk to, I’ll still have the mirror on the wall.”

Some part of Winter felt like throwing up. “ _Weiss_ …” Her fingers dug into Weiss’ shoulders, enough to make her sister flinch minutely. “We’ll get the restraining order overturned. The General knows it’s a done deal, just a matter of paperwork. I’ll be on my Scroll whenever you need to talk to someone.”

“Of course, Winter,” answered Weiss. And despite her youth, her expression was so controlled that it was a total cipher to the Operative. “I never believed otherwise.”

* * *

“Dare I ask if you accomplished your secondary objectives?” Ironwood inquired, with a levity Winter wasn’t quite feeling at the moment.

“I met with my sister,” Winter confirmed, keeping her voice low. There was no one nearby, but she knew how sounds could carry in this house. “We talked.”

“ _Ah_.” Ironwood’s voice made it clear that he did not exactly consider himself an expert on matters of sororal bonds.

“It is… possible that I fucked up.” Winter was so distraught that even cursing in front of her commanding officer didn’t cause her to blush.

“I very much doubt that, Operative,” Ironwood reassured her, though it was more bravado than he was willing to admit. It wasn’t like _his_ family relationships were anything to brag about... 

They made their way to a grandiloquent hall where Jacques had insisted on sending them off. Not out of any personal warmth - the conversation with the General hadn’t exactly been _amicable_ \- but Jacques _was_ having guests over. And there were few ways to boast like sending off a General and Councilor with a friendly pat on the back.

Ironwood picked an arbitrary spot in the hall, before a statue of a King Taijitu, staring at it absently while Winter drew to a parade rest behind him. Jacques kept them waiting a good five minutes before deigning to arrive himself, providing ample time for the occupants at the other end of the hall to gawk. Winter idly wondered if her Father _wanted_ her rebellion to be a well-documented matter of public record, if he thought that there was little hope of making amends.

“Well, _James_ , it’s been nice catching up with you,” said Jacques, slapping the General on the back like they were still old friends and not allies of necessity. Ironwood offered a small smile in return, and a curt shake of the hand. “I’ll let you know what we want done with those Grimm in the northeast.”

Winter had to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out. As if a man as petty as her Father had a right to _task_ a General. But Ironwood kept his expression stoically expressionless, knowing it was all just theater for Jacques’ guests. He had to save his energy for the real battles; survive a Grimm horde or three and all the politicking was just so much flotsam.

“And I would like to offer my thanks for the gracious assistance you have offered my Father.” Winter’s head snapped ‘round to find her sister, halfway through the dip of a curtsey. _Of course_ she’d chosen the words that would irk Father more than any bout of teenage cursing.

Ironwood cleared his throat, then took a moment to take in Weiss, eyes sweeping over her like she was an unfamiliar battlefield. “Not at all, Miss Schnee,” the General finally replied, his voice that low and charismatic rumble. “It’s my duty as a General to safeguard the people of Atlas.” He paused, an expression of uncertainty flashing over his face for the faintest length of time. “A duty that is also your sister’s.”

Winter’s right foot _squeaked_ a little against the marble floor, even if she’d seen the lifeline being thrown her way from a mile out. Unfortunately, she had no doubt that Weiss would recognize it as well, and reach the not-unreasonable conclusion that Winter had asked the General to help patch their relationship up.

The four of them stood in silence for several long seconds. “Well, Jacques, I really must be off,” said Ironwood, making an exit about as graceful as if he’d returned a girl from a date past curfew. “I have an airship parked on your lawn, after all.”

“Don’t work, I’ll be sending you a bill for it,” replied Jacques, with no hint that he was joking. Ironwood offered a grimace and spun around, strolling off towards their airship. Winter hesitated for just a moment, locking eyes with her Father and her sister, offering the same expression of determination to each. And then she followed the General out.

She caught up to Ironwood a dozen strides out the main door. “Thank you, sir. Though I must say I’m glad that’s over.”

“I know right now you might look at your family situation and see nothing but burnt bridges and salted earth,” Ironwood said, speaking in the reassuring tones of a mentor, “but it _will_ get better. Your Father has many flaws in his character, but he won’t let his pride get in the way of a working relationship with the Atlesian military. And your sister-”

“-Weiss is going to hate me more than Whitney,” Winter _groaned_ , rubbing her face with a gloved hand. Some part of her brain noted that she wasn’t exactly heartbroken at having avoided running into her brother, while another part just couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Your sister is going to be fine, Operative,” replied Ironwood, still in that mentor’s cadence of his. “As will your relationship.”

Winter cocked her head in a gesture of mild disbelief. “That’s a… very _confident_ claim, sir. Our relationship is a little… _complicated_.”

Ironwood smiled a little to himself. “You forget, Operative, I didn’t make it to ‘General’ by being a poor judge of conflicts.”

“Of course not, sir,” Winter hastily replied, though she managed to slip a note of levity into the formality. “I must say I envy your _coup d'œil_.”

The General shrugged at that. He wasn’t even entirely sure if there was such a thing, but he didn’t feel like quibbling over it. The two of them boarded the airship in silence.

“Where to, sir?” asked the pilot, fingers flying over the cockpit with the unthinking ease of countless hours of experience.

Ironwood looked Winter in the eye for a moment, before turning his attention to the pilot. “Take us home, Captain. Headquarters, landing zone West-4. And you’re not getting paid by the hour.”

The pilot laughed over the intercom, a static-choked chortle that brought a smile to Winter’s lips despite herself. Within a minute they were airborne, the thrust of acceleration pushing Winter into her seat.

She closed her eyes, not needing to look out the window as Schnee Manor receded into the night behind her.

* * *

CODA

Weiss Schnee shut the door to her bedroom behind her, as gently as she could manage with a thing of such weight. It wouldn’t do to arouse the attention of her father, not after the _monologue_ of epic proportions he had subjected her and Whitley to after his guests were shown the door. On her own her Father was bearable, but her brother had a tendency of egging him on, his boyish aggression finding an outlet clinging-on to the tirades of his father.

Weiss exhaled.

Composing herself, the young woman set about doing what she’d set her mind on, actualizing a flight of fancy that had been refusing to dissipate into her unconscious. Strolling over to her trunk, Weiss flipped the wrought-iron latch and began unpacking its contents. So many trinkets unthinkingly accumulated, boxes of jewelry worn once and then tucked away, forgotten.

_There_. With a slight groan Weiss tugged the box from the bottommost level of the trunk, buried like some forgotten treasure beneath layers of dirt. She placed the box down on her bed, doing her best not to get any dust on anything, and knowing it was hopeless. She paused for a moment, trying to remember the exact combination required to unseal the damn thing, but her fingers were spinning before the numbers were in her head, muscle memory supplanting actual memory.

The sword was in her hands before she could think. _Myrtenaster_. An SDC prototype which had never seen the light of day. A sword which made its way to her hands more through fluke and negligence then any real forethought from her parents. Something she’d thought of as a weapon, then as a trophy, then as a toy, then thought nothing of it at all.

Seeing the sword at Winter’s hip had…. Well, it was _such_ a waste to leave something like Myrtenaster at the bottom of a trunk, wasn’t it?

Weiss’ Scroll was in her hand. “Klein?”

“Yes, Miss Schnee?” her butler answered, after little more than second’s delay.

“Do we still have the training automatons in the West Wing?”

The line was dead for several long seconds. “I believe so, Miss Schnee. Shall I see if they are still in proper working order?”

“I would greatly appreciate it if you would,” Weiss answered, before signing off.

Something warm blossomed inside of her when she realized Klein had had no need to ask as to _why_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your last, best chance for comments. It's impossible to overstate how much reviews motivate me, how much even a single sentence saying whether you liked it or not can change my mood. I can also be reached on reddit as [pvoberstein](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/) or on Discord as Liara #2216. I love talking theories, headcanons, AUs with anyone so inclined.
> 
> Apologies for mucking with my one-a-day posting schedule, but I realized that Monday is going to be something of a nightmare at work, so I figured it was better to get this out of the way now. (I also literally had a nightmare where I posted a ton of personal information on AO3 instead of a chapter update, so I somehow spooked myself). I worked without proofreaders or editors on this, so I apologize profusely for any typos or grammatical errors than inevitably made their way in.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this trip. I'm really curious to hear if my interpretation of Winter's backstory, and her relationship with Ironwood, made sense to everyone. If you really like my interpretation of Winter and Ironwood I'd self-promotingly recommend _[Permafrost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438416)_ and _[Winter's Porcupine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7223479)_ , which I hope to organize into a series soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are the blessings of water for my crops and good health for my livestock. At the very least, they keep me sane & motivated. Even a short sentence letting me know that you dis/liked it goes a long way to making me feel like I'm not shouting into the void :D
> 
> Chalk Adel is definitely the most _actually_ OC original character I have ever written. I've never been really one for OCs, but canon did not exactly give me a lot to work with when it comes to 'characters who are around Winter's age'. She'll grow on you, I promise.
> 
> Unsolicited trivia: "coup d'œil" is commonly used to refer to a commander's ability to assess the progress of a battle in the sweep of an eye (at least, back in the days of Grand Armies and the like). Clausewitz may have attributed the success of Napoléon Bonaparte to the Corsican's _coup d'œil_.
> 
> Fair warning - remaining chapter lengths are going to have absolutely zero rhyme or reason. They _should_ be posted on a daily basis.


End file.
